for the_muses_stage: wrecked
Feb. 28th, 2010 06:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayerHe hadn't bothered to change back into the clothes he'd been wearing before he'd killed Jenny nor had he even gone to retrieve them. He'd thought about it briefly on his way back to the car, of course, knowing that changing his clothes would be the smart thing to do, lessening his risk of getting caught or having to explain things to Peter, but he found he really didn't care. He was in too good a mood, acquiring an ability of this magnitude leaving him near shivering with pleasure and certain that he couldn't be stopped.
So what if someone saw the blood that the browns of he uniform proudly displayed? Maybe he'd see if he couldn't make himself pyrokinetic -- he'd always wanted to be pyrokinetic -- and make them sorely regret seeing anything. Maybe he'd do something else to the same effect. Telepathy, the Haitian's ability, something. It didn't matter; he could do anything. He was sitting on a Goddamn gold mine, and while admittedly getting a new toy this way probably wouldn't be as satisfying as tearing through someone's skull like cheap wrapping paper, it didn't matter. Not right now, not while basking in the afterglow of a hunger sated.
And speaking of and in a mood to press his luck, he shifted slightly, his steps carrying him now to the diner he'd seen on the way from the motel rather than back to it immediately. His need for abilities might have fallen silent, but it occurred to him idly that he was still starving. He wanted breakfast -- waffles, maybe, and he'd sit in the booth, bathed in blood and eat them merrily, ignoring all the looks he was sure to get -- and he would damn well have it.
Grinning, he pushed open the door and straightened a bit, drawing attention to himself, and moved to stand by the hostess stand, all but bouncing on his feet. A few looks were cast in his direction, not nearly as many as he had hoped, but they lingered, eyes going wide at the stains on his shirt. He wondered how many of them he could make even more uncomfortable if he made some obvious excuse about how it was motor oil and flashed them a handful of wicked looks. Not that he had much time to dream, the hostess stepping up to her station in the corners of his vision.
He turned to face her, still smiling, and in the accent he'd adopted for Jenny, he offered amicablly, "Well, hey there."
Her eyes seemed glued to his chest; somehow, she managed to pull them away after a moment. "My God, honey, are you all -- "
"Just peachy," he cut in, gesturing towards one of the unoccupied tables by the window. He liked the idea of being able to see the whole room. "Now, why don't you let me have a sit down and some coffee, and then we can talk breakfast?"
Nodding dumbly, she gathered a menu into her arms and lead him to the table he'd pointed out. He took a seat, back to the window, and she dumped the menu into his lap before hurrying away. He was almost disappointed that she hadn't bothered to list the specials for him, even if there were on the first page of the menu. Southerners. Always in a rush and most likely to call the police -- or an ambulance -- too.
He hoped he'd at least get his coffee before emergency services showed up.
Shrugging the thought away, he nudged the menu up onto the table and pursued it idly, a hand falling to the flowered veneer of the table to drum on it as he looked. He'd gotten as far as considering steak and eggs rather than his usual when he noted that the room's attention had shifted away from him. It wasn't something he could see, still engrossed in the menu, but rather something he could feel, burning stares no longer fixed on him, and he looked up, frowning.
A handful of people had gotten to their feet, another few frozen in their chairs and staring blankly out the window behind him. No one seemed to really know what they were doing or what they were looking for -- though surely there was something -- and Sylar joined them, casting a look over his shoulder with the growing sense of unease. Something was coming. What, he could no more say than anyone else in the room could, but they were standing on the edge of something.
His fingers stilled against the table but still he could feel minute vibrations against his skin, and he glanced back, watching in half horror as the salt and pepper containers jittered across the surface, straying dangerously close to the edge. He, like so many others, was on his feet in an instant, though he didn't stand still, instead bolting for the door, hurried along by some odd possession to run. Run back to the motel. Back to Claire and Peter.
He didn't try to fight it, breaking into a run as soon as he the pavement, thoughts of breakfast left behind in the diner as it became a blur behind him. Even with as his speed, backed soundly by his telekinesis, however, he didn't make it back to the hotel in time. With a horrible, heavy rumble that stole the cement out from under his feet, the motel, still a half a mile ahead of him, crumbled to dust in an instant. A moment of silence and stillness followed and then the earth shuddered again, a thick cloud of debris stretching out angrily from where the building had been.
Panic gripped him and he scrambled back into a stand, not bothering to pause to get his bearings before rushing towards their hideout again. And as he drew closer, as any hopes that he had somehow seen wrong were shattered, he half hoped that their assailant -- Samuel, it could only be Samuel -- was still around and watching his handiwork. At least that way killing him, and he would kill him for this, would be an easy task.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1029
Note: Follows this, this, this, and this.
So what if someone saw the blood that the browns of he uniform proudly displayed? Maybe he'd see if he couldn't make himself pyrokinetic -- he'd always wanted to be pyrokinetic -- and make them sorely regret seeing anything. Maybe he'd do something else to the same effect. Telepathy, the Haitian's ability, something. It didn't matter; he could do anything. He was sitting on a Goddamn gold mine, and while admittedly getting a new toy this way probably wouldn't be as satisfying as tearing through someone's skull like cheap wrapping paper, it didn't matter. Not right now, not while basking in the afterglow of a hunger sated.
And speaking of and in a mood to press his luck, he shifted slightly, his steps carrying him now to the diner he'd seen on the way from the motel rather than back to it immediately. His need for abilities might have fallen silent, but it occurred to him idly that he was still starving. He wanted breakfast -- waffles, maybe, and he'd sit in the booth, bathed in blood and eat them merrily, ignoring all the looks he was sure to get -- and he would damn well have it.
Grinning, he pushed open the door and straightened a bit, drawing attention to himself, and moved to stand by the hostess stand, all but bouncing on his feet. A few looks were cast in his direction, not nearly as many as he had hoped, but they lingered, eyes going wide at the stains on his shirt. He wondered how many of them he could make even more uncomfortable if he made some obvious excuse about how it was motor oil and flashed them a handful of wicked looks. Not that he had much time to dream, the hostess stepping up to her station in the corners of his vision.
He turned to face her, still smiling, and in the accent he'd adopted for Jenny, he offered amicablly, "Well, hey there."
Her eyes seemed glued to his chest; somehow, she managed to pull them away after a moment. "My God, honey, are you all -- "
"Just peachy," he cut in, gesturing towards one of the unoccupied tables by the window. He liked the idea of being able to see the whole room. "Now, why don't you let me have a sit down and some coffee, and then we can talk breakfast?"
Nodding dumbly, she gathered a menu into her arms and lead him to the table he'd pointed out. He took a seat, back to the window, and she dumped the menu into his lap before hurrying away. He was almost disappointed that she hadn't bothered to list the specials for him, even if there were on the first page of the menu. Southerners. Always in a rush and most likely to call the police -- or an ambulance -- too.
He hoped he'd at least get his coffee before emergency services showed up.
Shrugging the thought away, he nudged the menu up onto the table and pursued it idly, a hand falling to the flowered veneer of the table to drum on it as he looked. He'd gotten as far as considering steak and eggs rather than his usual when he noted that the room's attention had shifted away from him. It wasn't something he could see, still engrossed in the menu, but rather something he could feel, burning stares no longer fixed on him, and he looked up, frowning.
A handful of people had gotten to their feet, another few frozen in their chairs and staring blankly out the window behind him. No one seemed to really know what they were doing or what they were looking for -- though surely there was something -- and Sylar joined them, casting a look over his shoulder with the growing sense of unease. Something was coming. What, he could no more say than anyone else in the room could, but they were standing on the edge of something.
His fingers stilled against the table but still he could feel minute vibrations against his skin, and he glanced back, watching in half horror as the salt and pepper containers jittered across the surface, straying dangerously close to the edge. He, like so many others, was on his feet in an instant, though he didn't stand still, instead bolting for the door, hurried along by some odd possession to run. Run back to the motel. Back to Claire and Peter.
He didn't try to fight it, breaking into a run as soon as he the pavement, thoughts of breakfast left behind in the diner as it became a blur behind him. Even with as his speed, backed soundly by his telekinesis, however, he didn't make it back to the hotel in time. With a horrible, heavy rumble that stole the cement out from under his feet, the motel, still a half a mile ahead of him, crumbled to dust in an instant. A moment of silence and stillness followed and then the earth shuddered again, a thick cloud of debris stretching out angrily from where the building had been.
Panic gripped him and he scrambled back into a stand, not bothering to pause to get his bearings before rushing towards their hideout again. And as he drew closer, as any hopes that he had somehow seen wrong were shattered, he half hoped that their assailant -- Samuel, it could only be Samuel -- was still around and watching his handiwork. At least that way killing him, and he would kill him for this, would be an easy task.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1029
Note: Follows this, this, this, and this.
